Hedge Fund Manager Are Sad

And dying from a form of cancer that attacks alpha generation, they say.
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Making gobs of money used to be easy. Now it's hard and that makes money managers question the very point of it all (other than being able to afford trendy coffee drinks).

Howard Fischer, wearing a white shirt and khakis, leans back into a window seat at a juice bar in Greenwich, Connecticut, sips a cold-brewed Mexican mocha and shares his angst. “It’s miserable, miserable,” the 57-year-old manager of $1.1 billion Basso Capital Management says of hedge fund returns over the past few years. “If that’s the normal expectation, I don’t have a business.”

It makes them feel like they're dying, but not in a lucky way like by heart attack. By a long bout of cancer, if there were type of cancer wherein you still got to charge investor fees for not beating the market. Except unlike people with actual cancer, no one's offered to make one of their wishes come true, which feels unfair and maybe even a little discriminatory.

The frustration is felt on both sides of the Atlantic. George Papamarkakis, whose main fund at $1 billion London-based North Asset Management is down about 10 percent this year, likens the industry’s poor performance to a chronic disease. “There’s gloom everywhere,” Papamarkakis, 46, says at a steakhouse in midtown Manhattan during a visit to the U.S. last week. The financial crisis “was a sudden death for a lot of people, like a heart attack, but this feels like cancer to many people, a slow death.”

If you'd like to do something to cheer these people up, which you should as their plight is a heartbreaking one that gets little attention, don't wait for the Make A Wish foundation to start a hedge fund division. That could take years. Whether it's a trip to Disneyland or a hot tip that could mean the difference between a sad quarter and happy one, you alone can make a difference in these hedge fund managers lives.

Hedge Fund Managers Struggle to Master Their Miserable New World [Bloomberg]

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Hedge Fund Manager Who Faked His Own Death Has A Few Theories About Other Famous Murders, Real And Imaginary

Remember Samuel Israel III? For those with short memories, SI3 is a former hedge fund manager who faked his own death in June 2008 with the help of his girlfriend, Debra Ryan, who later wrote an article explaining her actions by noting that she and Israel had "a blazing sex life" that was hard to walk away from (Ryan shared colorful anecdotes that included all the times Israel would "[jokingly] sneak up on her, once while wearing sunglasses on his penis"). For Israel's part, he had pretended to kill himself, incorporating a line from M*A*S*H into his fake suicide note, in an attempt to avoid the prison stay that was coming his way, on account of having taken Bayou Group investors for more than $450 million. At the time, he became something of a minor celebrity, whose business card, prominently featuring an egret, was auctioned off on eBay but since ultimately being sentenced to twenty years behind bars we'd heard nary a peep from the guy. Luckily, Andrew Ross Sorkin recently flew down to Butner, North Carolina for a little chat and it's a good thing he did because Israel had a lot he wanted to get off his chest. After offering ARS an "orange Life Saver," discussing his own version of a playoffs beard ("Mr. Israel...was wearing a tan prison uniform with his hair grown out, a mass of silver and brown curls sprouting from the sides of his bald head. 'I’m never going to cut it until I get out,' he exclaimed"), and talking Ponzi schemes, SI3 got down to the real matter at hand. About halfway through, the interview turned bizarre when Mr. Israel, on the verge of crying, announced: “I took a man’s life. I shot him twice.” I asked for more details. The story is recounted in “Octopus,” but the author, Mr. Lawson, doesn’t appear to believe it. In the supposed slaying, Mr. Israel describes himself defending a known con man, Robert Booth Nichols, who claimed to have once worked for the Central Intelligence Agency and has since died. Mr. Nichols was undertaking a secret trade at a German bank and was ambushed outside by a cockeyed “Middle Eastern guy.” Mr. Israel says he shot the ambusher in the hip and then in the head. He looked at me, shaking, and said, “I’ve seen someone with their head blown off maybe two feet back — as close as I am to you.” Mr. Israel recognized my skepticism. When I asked him what happened to the body, he said, “Bob made a couple of calls.” Again, I looked at him quizzically. “These people can do anything. They can get rid of a body,” he said. “Come on,” he added, looking at me as if I didn’t understand. “They can kill presidents.” I wasn’t sure what he was talking about. “The J.F.K. thing,” he said. He went on to tell me that he had videotapes of Kennedy’s assassination and that one was stolen by the F.B.I. “I know it makes me look like a crackpot,” he said. “But I know it’s real. Look into my eyes — I don’t care if people think I’m crazy.” Egrets. A Con Man Who Lives Between Truth And Fiction [Dealbook]